left shoulder, while ahead the contubernia of ten mounted soldiers cleared a path with hurried shouts of warning to the human stream that travelled the great north road. Atticus’s mind was on the task ahead, the rapid rhythm of hoof beats on the paving stones aiding his concentration.
The commander at the barracks in Ostia had confirmed the tribune’s assertions. Ostia and Rome were awash with rumours of the fleet’s destruction and two days of un certainty had created a latent panic that was only kept in check by the absence of any firm proof, something Atticus was now going to deliver to the Senate.
The horsemen reached the Servian Wall and sped through the Porta Flumentana, their pace only slowing as they entered the narrow streets. The insulae soared above them on either side, while between them Atticus caught glances of the Palatine and Capitoline hills reaching up from the valley floor.
The streets were packed with people moving with intent, and Atticus’s mount snorted anxiously as the crowd pressed in from all sides. Atticus spurred on his horse, ignoring the angry abuse of those he pushed aside. The pedestrians’ temerity in the face of mounted armed men emphasized the confidence every Roman citizen felt in their safety within the walls of the city.
The narrow street soon gave way to the open space of the Forum Magnum, the main Forum, and the horses increased to a canter as they crossed to the northwest corner and the Curia. Atticus and Septimus dismounted and walked quickly up the steps, their eyes raised to the columned entrance above. Atticus paused as he reached the top and looked over his shoulder to the city spread out before him. The air was filled with the constant hum of a bustling population, concealed within the myriad streets. Atticus recalled the last time he had stood on this spot, when those same people had crowded into the Forum below to celebrate the fleet’s first victory at Mylae. He turned and saw Septimus waiting for him. He nodded and they went inside.
The noise of the outside world subsided with every step they took beyond the entrance to the Curia, to be replaced with the drone of voices raised in debate interspersed with calls of agreement and dissent. Atticus paused at the threshold, his gaze sweeping the tiered seating, searching for a familiar face to call attention to his arrival.
The chamber was no more than a third full, with many of the senators leaning into tight circles of private conversation, while others looked to the senator speaking at length at the near side of the room. He was reading from a parchment, his monotone delivery holding the attention of only those closest to him, whose enthusiasm for his words seemed lacklustre at best.
Atticus felt Septimus tap him on the arm, drawing his attention to the podium facing the tiered seating. An old senator was seated beside it, his back straight in the winged chair. His gaze was locked on the speaker. Atticus nodded and walked across the floor, his movement drawing the attention of some of the senators.
The princeps senatus looked towards Atticus as he heard the approaching footsteps. He stood up slowly, his expression a mixture of annoyance and curiosity and, as Atticus leaned in to whisper to him, a general murmur began to develop amongst the onlookers, quickly reaching a level that caused the speaker to pause in his oration and look towards the podium.
Atticus gave his message quickly and succinctly, leaving the princeps senatus little chance to respond, but the senators closest to the podium noticed the change in the leader’s expression and their reaction fuelled further speculation that ended all other conversation in the chamber.
Atticus stood upright once more as he finished, and the princeps senatus stepped back, his hand reaching for the podium. He moved behind it and the chamber came to order unbidden.
‘This man…’ he began, pointing to Atticus and looking to him questioningly, having forgotten his name. After Atticus’s whispered prompt, the older man continued: ‘… Prefect Perennis, of Consul Paullus’s fleet, brings news of the gravest import.’
The mention of Paullus brought many of the senators to their feet. They had all heard the rumours and the princeps senatus ’s demeanour was in itself confirmation. A barrage of questions swept across the chamber. The leader called for order but his frailty, compounded by shock, undermined his attempts, and his words were lost in the maelstrom.
‘Citizens!’
Septimus’s sudden strident call brought quiet to the chamber. Everyone looked to the centurion, his commanding stare holding their attention, drawing out the silence. He nodded to Atticus who turned to address the chamber.
‘Senators, I have come here from Agrigentum to inform you of the destruction of the Classis Romanus,’ Atticus began. He outlined the events of the storm, omitting his conversation with Paullus in Aspis but sparing no other detail, including the loss of the Concordia with all hands. The senators listened in complete silence, staggered by the disaster. The conclusion of his announcement was met by a deafening roar of questions and lamentations.
The dozens of discussions made individual debate impossible. Atticus remained at the podium, answering questions as they were asked, repeating details of the report a dozen times in as many minutes to senators at opposite ends of the room. Some men rushed from the chamber to seek out absent senators, feeding them the news as they led them back to the Senate. Each new arrival added to the confusion, the noise level growing as the numbers passed two hundred. Atticus could no longer isolate individual voices. The frustration of those who had not heard the report first-hand quickly turned to aggression as their questions were lost in the uproar.
Unnoticed by Atticus, Scipio entered the chamber, led by the junior senator who had sought him out. He stopped just feet inside the room and scanned the crowd, sneering disdainfully at the sight. He had seen this too often. The Senate of Rome, the leaders of the Republic, reduced to a panicked mob, lacking what Scipio always believed only he and a few others like him could bestow: the iron hand of leadership. He uttered a brief command to the junior senator at his side, and the younger man disappeared into the throng to search out the members of the conservative faction, drawing their attention to Scipio’s presence. As a group they did not recognize him as their leader, but individually the majority of them had forged an alliance with Scipio, the junior senators acknowledging him as a patron, the senior members as a cohort; although each man believed his association to be unique, the web of secrecy that Scipio imposed concealing the breadth of his influence.
He stepped out into an open space in the floor and waited for the ripple effect of individual groups becoming quiet to cascade into a general silence as senators quickly turned in the direction indicated by others. Soon all were focused on the senior senator standing apart on the floor of the chamber.
Atticus, puzzled by the return to order, followed the gaze of the crowd. A wave of anger and dread swept over him as he recognized Scipio; his hands clenched the edges of the podium to steady his temper and nerve. Scipio was the manifestation of all that Atticus despised in Rome. He realized that the enmity he felt for the hydra- headed politician had not abated over the years since he had last seen him. It struck him now like a hammer blow to the stomach and he failed to keep his emotions in check. Anger twisted his mouth, accentuating the deep scar on his face.
Scipio turned to the podium and, seeing the Greek’s expression, smiled coldly. The shock of the news the junior senator had brought had been tempered by the identity of the messenger. This was the Greek who had brought glory to his sworn enemy, Duilius, and compounded Scipio’s downfall; the whoreson, who had somehow survived subsequent attempts to destroy him, always remained beyond Scipio’s immediate reach. He turned his back on Atticus and looked around the room. It was nearly full and he motioned to the senators still standing on the floor to be seated, the men complying without hesitation. A hush fell over the vaulted chamber.
‘Repeat your report in full,’ Scipio said dismissively over his shoulder, and Atticus’s voice filled the room once more. Scipio remained standing, adjusting his position until he seemed to become the conduit for Atticus’s report, the senators instinctively shifting their gaze continuously from the podium to the lone senator on the floor. As Atticus’s report ended for a second time, all eyes turned to Scipio.
‘Can you confirm the loss of the Concordia?’ he asked, keeping his back to Atticus.
‘The surviving ships sailed to Agrigentum. The Concordia was not amongst them. I can confirm nothing beyond that,’ Atticus replied, the identity of his interrogator giving his voice a hostile edge.
The tone was not lost on Scipio, and he quickly rearranged the sequence of questions in his mind. The senators were in shock, the loss of the fleet compounded by the almost certain loss of both consuls. In times of crisis, weak men often turn to the strong for guidance and reassurance, and Scipio was, for now, in a unique position. Duilius was not in the chamber — he had not yet arrived, and Scipio held the floor. The Senate was looking to him, but Scipio knew the spell of shock and uncertainty would soon be broken as other astute members of the Senate regained their wits. So he needed to act fast if he was to exploit the opportunity to the full. Paullus was
